Defects Found on the Losing Side
by starrysummernights
Summary: John confesses his love for Sherlock in a desperate attempt to prevent him from jumping from St. Bart's. "Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side." Post-Reichenbach John, with eventual reunion, and eventual Johnlock. M for suicide and slash-y thoughts.
1. Chapter 1

John Hamish Watson had served in Afghanistan, had seen death and destruction on an almost daily basis. His nightmares were vivid and gruesome, internal mirrors that reflected the true horrors John had witnessed first-hand throughout his life. Some memories were more vivid than others and would visit him in the daytime, rendering John unable to function, and he would look around him and wonder how everyone was acting so happy, so alive, while he was trapped inside his own personal hell. John had seen injuries so grotesque that for a brief period, his mind had refused to process what was in front of his eyes. He had merely seen so much meat that could not possibly have once been a human being. Screams, panicked and insane, cries that were ripped from the mouths of children while they were murdered, were background noise to John's most vivid nightmares.

Nothing, however, could ever rival what he was witnessing right now. This memory, he knew, would destroy him. This was not happening, he could not allow this to happen. _Please, God, no._

"I'm a fake."

"Ok, shut up, Sherlock, shut up. The first time we met- _the first time we met_, you knew all about my sister right?"

"Nobody could be that clever."

"You could."

Sherlock laughed. "I researched you. Before we met I discovered everything I could to impress you. This is my note, John."

"Note? Note for what?"

"That's what people do, isn't it? When they do this sort of thing? Leave a note?"

John's pulse hammered in his throat, obstructing his airway and threatening to choke him. The leaden, sick feeling in the pit of his stomach was unbearable as he realized, though it felt as if he had known all along- from the first moment he saw Sherlock standing all alone on the rooftop- what was about to happen.

"Sherlock….no, just…Sherlock. _You can't leave me_." John took a deep breath, steeling himself for what he was about to say and praying that he managed to keep Sherlock from jumping. "I love you. I love you, you amazing genius, and I cannot imagine a life without you. I have been in love with you since the first moment I saw you and…I- I want to be with you, grow old with you. I want to-to move to the country and raise bees with you, _I don't care_ as long as I'm with you."

He took a ragged breath as the man on the other end of the phone remained silent. "I love you, Sherlock. Please…please _don't leave me_."

There was a whisper of a sound as it ghosted down the line and John clutched the phone tighter to his ear in order to catch what had been said, but then Sherlock's voice came over the speaker clear, flat and emotionless, and John's stomach bottomed out.

"Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side. Goodbye, John." There was a clatter in his ear as John watched Sherlock throw his phone behind him.

And John could only watch, in absolute mind-numbing horror, as Sherlock jumped from the roof of St. Bart's Hospital and smashed against the pavement below.

John jerked himself upright in the bed, a scream tearing its way past his lips and reverberating around his room. Taking in deep lungful's of air and trying to get his heartbeat under control, he gripped his hair in both hands, scrunched his face up, and attempted to will away the sobs that threatened to rip their way out of his chest.

Why did his mind so persistently revisit this on him every night? There was always so much blood, too much blood. There had not been that much blood in real life, though there had been enough to make John physically ill more than once when he remembered. Perhaps that had more to do with the devastation and shock he had felt at seeing his best friend in the entire world kill himself before his very eyes.

"John? John, dear, are you all right?" Mrs. Hudson's timid voice came through the closed door, kindness and concern emanating from her.

"Fine, Mrs. Hudson. Just a…I'm fine. Go back to bed, sorry for bothering you." John winced at how ragged and worn his voice sounded and hoped that Mrs. Hudson had not noticed. He knew that she had, though.

"Oh, it's all right, dear." She paused uncertainly and John held his breath. He did not want her comfort; he did not want her asking questions and baking him food and taking care of him as if he were a child. It was hateful to him, made his insides squirm and tears heat his eyes, and he hated feeling such overwhelming emotions all the time.

"Do you need anything, dear?"

John resisted the urge to throw something at the door and scream at her to leave him alone. Did he need anything?! Of course he needed something. He needed Sherlock to still be alive, needed him to burst into the flat in a whirl of woolen coat and flashing eyes, delighted at the latest grisly murder. He needed Sherlock stealing his gun, no matter where John hid it, and shooting holes in the wall when he was bored, and playing his violin at all hours of the night. John needed Sherlock just down the stairs in the kitchen blowing up the microwave with his latest invention, finding heads and body parts in the freezer, and smelling noxious fumes at all hours of the night. He needed _SHERLOCK!_

"Yes, fine, Mrs. Hudson." He managed in an even tone of voice and he heard her sigh, then slowly make her way back downstairs and to her own flat.

As John sank down on his bed again, pulling the covers up to his chin, he kept thinking, unable to turn off his mind now that he was fixed on Sherlock. During the past 8 months, John had spent an unhealthy amount of time remembering his life with Sherlock, dredging up painful memories of times he had brushed Sherlock aside, made fun of him in a friendly manner, or simply not been there for him when Sherlock needed it. Now, with Sherlock's suicide lingering fresh in his mind, John kept wondering if he might have prevented it, if he might have been a better friend and prevented Sherlock's death.

_Ah, but he had tried_, his mind whispered to him in a sneaky voice. _Remember? We tried to save him by telling him how we felt but that was not enough. It had been too little too late._ John rolled onto his side and squinched his eyes closed but he could not stop the emotions from rolling through him.

He needed Sherlock to have cared, to have loved him enough to not have jumped. He needed Sherlock, even if it had not been a romantic love, to at least have loved him enough to come down and take his hand and promise never to do something so stupid again. They would have worked things out. Already, with Mycroft's help, Moriarty's web of lies was being blown away, leaving the truth where it had been all along. Sherlock's name would have been cleared, he would have been a free man, he would still be alive. Still be his insufferable, annoying, genius self, setting the flat on fire on banging around crime scenes…

Huffing out a sigh, knowing he would not sleep anymore tonight, John rose and grabbed clean clothes, then his cane and limped downstairs to the shower. He turned it on as hot as he could and not burn, feeling the need to wash away the dream and his own emotional thoughts. He scrubbed and scrubbed, refusing to think, until his cloth brushed against his groin and he felt…nothing. No leap of desire, no urge to linger and press and tease himself until he was senseless with pleasure. None of it seemed to matter much now.

John had been like this when he was first invalided home from Afghanistan- numb with grief and shock. Frustrated with himself for being wounded, for being weak enough to develop a limp when there was no physical reason for him to have one. "Nothing ever happens to me." He had felt as if he were in a plastic bubble and the world was carrying on blithely all around him but John was kept from it, all the colors were muted and none of the emotions were tangible.

Then Sherlock happened. Sherlock happened and everything became real, became vibrant and amusing and so full of life that John had felt like he was rediscovering himself again, rediscovering life. It had been a wonderful, heady sensation and many times John had felt like he was flying, like he was living a life too good, a life that could not possibly be for him.

Then Sherlock happened.


	2. Chapter 2

**Hello everyone! I wanted to take the opportunity to clarify, in case someone stumbles across this fic, that this story is unrelated to my other in-progress story "Invading Afghanistan." Please read and review- I love reviews, as it only serves to make me a better writer! I hope you enjoy this story :) Any mistakes are mine.**

John could not move out of Baker Street. That was imperative. The merest thought of moving out, of getting his own place, made him break out in a cold sweat and look around the flat as if making sure all of his things were still in place. Many of Sherlock's possessions were still in place too. For the first few months after Sherlock's death, John could not understand his negative reaction in moving from the flat. He had agreed with Lestrade that it would probably be better for him to move, seeing as how the sight of Sherlock's violin, sitting forlornly where Sherlock had last placed it and collecting dust, had been enough to break John into fits of sobbing. He shuddered when he thought of his reaction when he had first gone into Sherlock's room after his death.

Still, despite warnings for the state of his mental health, John could not leave. He finally realized, one day as he was making a half-hearted attempt at cleaning the flat, the reason why. He was afraid of moving on. If John left the flat, got his own place, he may forget Sherlock Holmes. John had lost his father when he was a teenager and the pain of his death had been the worst thing in his life up until that point. He remembered how he was sure he would never be able to move on from his death, that the rest of his life would be tinged by sadness…except it wasn't. He still thought of his father sometimes, but with bittersweet remembrances and slight rushes of longing, faint echoes of the love he had felt for him. It was impossible for John to imagine remembering Sherlock faintly. It would seem an insult to his memory. So he remained steadfastly at Baker Street.

"Tell me, Dr. Watson, how is the lovely Sarah doing? Surely you have a date with her tonight?"

John ground his teeth but refused to turn around and face Mycroft. He had heard Mrs. Hudson open the door a few minutes ago, heard the low voices talking in the hall- no doubt talking about him- and now here was the brother, the wrong Holmes, and John just wanted him to go away. He reminded him of Sherlock, as if he needed further reminding.

"You know I don't, Mycroft."

"Dear me," Mycroft sank down on the chair opposite Johns, Sherlock's chair, and fondled the head of his umbrella. "No need to be snappish, Doctor. I was only inquiring how your relationship was progressing." He gave a very thin lipped smile that did not reach his eyes.

"Seeing as how you know very well I don't have a relationship with Sarah, or anyone else for that matter, I am wondering at the source of your information. Losing your touch?"

Mycroft laughed quietly, crossing his legs and getting comfortable. John refrained from pointing out that the chair was not his. It would only serve to draw attention to himself and his emotions.

"I can see you will not make this a polite visit, Doctor Watson-"

"If you wanted a polite visit you should have started it better." John fired back, setting his empty mug down on the table and eyeing Mycroft coldly.

"We all make mistakes, John."

John's eyes snapped up to meet Mycroft's and he could see the sadness radiating from his cold eyes. It was there and gone, quicksilver emotions, like both the Holmes brothers had, but it had still been there nonetheless. John felt better for it.

Mycroft cleared his throat and suddenly became business like again. "I am here to attempt to compel you out of this half-existence you seem bent on pursuing, if I can use such a word. I am not even sure that you are doing this to yourself on purpose. The blame cannot entirely rest on you, of course, Doctor. Sherlock has always done this since he was a boy. Once he tired of a toy or experiment, it was always somehow left for me to clean up and dispose of. If he ever got himself in a bit of trouble, it was always up to me to swoop in and save the day, the model older brother. He never was very good at taking care of his…possessions."

"I was not one of Sherlock's possessions! I was his friend!" John felt anger flood his entire body, steadying his nerves and allowing him a moment of feeling in control back. "He never treated me as an experiment- he cared about me and-"

"He left you, John." Mycroft's voice cut through John's tirade and deflated him in a second. "He left you without a thought as to how you would feel, what you would go through. I am aware that you are working at the surgery again, no doubt thanks to the lovely Sarah being sympathetic to your plight. You are…very _involved_ at the surgery these days."

John's jaw tightened and he stared hard at Mycroft. He knew what he was referring to. One week after Sherlock's death, John had phoned Sarah and asked for his old job back. A year later, he was still working there, throwing himself into his work with a fervor he had not had since he was a resident. He took 12 hour shifts, more if he could get them, and took extra shifts when the others needed a holiday or special event. Lots of work left John less time at 221B, less time to think, less time to obsess about Sherlock, and hopefully render him so exhausted that by the time he fell asleep he would not dream.

"I have bills to pay, Mycroft. There's no new law against a man working hard, is there?" John tried to be cool and calm but felt that he failed miserably. He was just too angry, being around Mycroft reminding him of Sherlock's suicide and Moriarty.

Mycroft smiled coldly. "Let us be honest with each other, John. You are not working for the money. You have plenty of money, I have made sure of that. Model older brother role, you remember. It seemed wrong to leave Sherlock's…_friend_ without financial stability. It eased my conscious to help you."

John remembered checking the balance in his bank account the week after Sherlock's death. He had been expecting an overdraw notice but had been surprised to find thousands of pounds had magically been deposited into his account. The lady at the bank had shrugged helplessly when he asked who had deposited the money, but he had known who had done it. He had marched home and called Sarah that same day, refusing to spend a pound of Mycroft's money. Blood money.

"How will you ever have a clean conscious after you gave Moriarty every piece of information he used to destroy Sherlock?" John's words were venomous and Mycroft flinched slightly.

"I am clearing his name, Doctor Watson, that is allowing me to absolve myself." He gave John a steady Look and rose, towering over the smaller man, smirking.

"I don't want to have to see you decay before my eyes, John. Everyone is worried about you. It has been a whole year since Sherlock's…death. Why not rejoin the land of the living yourself? Perhaps you will ask Sarah for a date next Friday night? She was always partial to you."

John slumped back against his chair as Mycroft took his parting shot.

"Though not as much as my brother was."


	3. Chapter 3

John did not like being threatened by anyone, particularly Mycroft who had, in John's mind, played a part in Sherlock's death…but he could see that Mycroft had a point. John got up, went to work, came back to 221B, went to sleep, then the cycle began again- day after day after day. He didn't return Lestrade's phone calls, avoided Mrs. Hudson when possible, and made so many excuses to his old friends that they eventually quit calling altogether. Greg still called every week to ask John around for a pint but John always refused. Now, staring at the chair Mycroft had just vacated, John thought about it.

He had allowed himself a week of mourning, of crying and depression, of refusing to get out of his bed and eating very little. When he and Mrs. Hudson had visited Sherlock's grave, John had spilled his heart to the cold, unchanging stone, expressing words he had never been able to when Sherlock was alive, and then soldiered on. Emotions were gone, joy was gone, life itself felt as if it were meaningless. His limp had returned and he found his cane in the depths of his closet, bringing with it a rush of memories of Sherlock that were painful and beautiful all at once.

Perhaps…it _was_ time to move on. To stop this self-imposed exile and step out into the world- meet people, laugh, have a good time with friends. Maybe it would fill this hollow feeling in his very soul. The idea felt like a betrayal of Sherlock but John steadily pushed this aside. Sherlock was gone, it was time to move on. Right? Shaking his head, John pulled his phone out of his pocket, unlocked it, and dialed Greg's number.

"Lestrade."

"Hey, Greg, this is John. How are you?"

There was a long pause before-

"John? Christ, how are you doing? Is everything ok?" Concern bled down the line and John winced and began to regret the call.

"Everything's fine, Greg, just ringing for a friendly chat. I thought you might want to get out and grab a pint at The Boar's Head sometime."

There was absolute silence on the other end for a few seconds. "Wh- yeah, of course! Fantastic! Care to meet now? I'm just wrapping up a case at the office, I could be there in 30 minutes."

John felt guilty that Greg sounded so excited to meet, but he had suspicions that his eagerness to see John was to ascertain that John was ok and not suicidal. He shuddered to think how close to that he had been in the past few months.

"Great, see you then."

"So, how have things been?" John asked, clutching his beer and feeling overwhelmed in the crowded, loud pub. It had been too long since he had been in crowds and now he remembered why. How people could laugh and function while John wanted to stand up and howl in grief was nauseating.

"Not good, actually." Greg pulled a face and downed a large portion of his own beer. "Keep getting these horrible murders, leads all end up dead, no information to go on- cold cases are going up. " he shook his head, which John noticed had become significantly greyer in the last year. Stress. "I used to say that Sherlock was worth 50 of my men combined, but that was a lie. He was worth 100 of them."

John's stomach dropped unpleasantly when Greg mentioned Sherlock. He tried to smile hopefully.

"Maybe things will pan out. Something has to have been missed. You know…_he_…always said people 'saw but did not observe.' I'm sure there's something there and you're just not seeing it."

Greg rolled his eyes. "Yeah, and I wish I had half of his intelligence. Nobody observed like him."

John shook his head and downed more of his beer. When he lowered the glass Greg was watching him keenly.

"How are you doing, John?"

"Fine, just…fine. Bit overworked right now at the surgery. Flu season, you know, but that will eventually be over, thank Christ. People throwing up all over my office. I had to have the cleaning lady in four times just yesterday." He forced a laugh and took another drink, refusing to acknowledge that his hands were shaking.

Greg offered a disgusted look. "Damn and I thought I had it bad some days. At least my office stays nice and clean."

John thought the conversation would move on as he looked at the big television screen showing a rugby match. He was disappointed when Greg cleared his throat. He knew what was coming.

"It's good to see you again, mate. I was starting to worry, you know. It's not your fault, you know, what happened. It wasn't because of anything you did. _You have to know that_. There was nothing you could have done to have prevented it."

"You don't know that." John said in a low voice, clutching his beer and staring fixedly at the telly. He no longer saw the game, though. He saw piercing blue eyes, proud cheekbones, lush cupid's bow lips, and pale skin.

Lestrade sighed deeply. "All I'm saying is that Sherlock…Sherlock chose his own path. He always did and damn to anyone who tried to stop him. You were his best friend and were always there for him. Christ, I can imagine the patience it took to put up with him on a regular basis. Hell, I barely had the patience and I didn't live with the bloke. You've got to stop blaming yourself, John."

"I've got to get up early in the morning, Greg. It was great seeing you." John said, suddenly standing up and laying money on the table. He couldn't control the tremors in his hands and he was sickeningly aware of Greg's eyes taking this in.

"John…Christ, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have-"

"No, it's fine, Greg. It's all fine. I'll see you around, ok?"

John did not run from the pub. It took all of his reserve to limp briskly away.

John sat at his computer in his office, mercifully clean of all sick, busily typing up a patient report when Sarah knocked on his open door and smiled.

"Are you busy?"

John smiled back at her, noticing that it no longer hurt to smile, though it was hardly a genuine article. "Of course not, come on in. Is there another patient?"

"Oh, no, not really." Sarah said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and sending John a look he had no trouble interpreting. Suddenly, he wished he had said he was too busy to see her, wished he had said anything than allow her in his office.

"I was wondering, if you're not too busy, if you wanted to go out tonight? I know it's short notice but I thought we could celebrate your return to the surgery. You're doing a great job, you know. This past year has been amazing. I'm not sure how we would have gotten through without you."

John continued to smile and started working on a suitable excuse. "Oh, will the others be joining us?"

Sarah bit her lip and flushed a bit red. "Uh, no, actually I was thinking just me and you. That is, if you're free." She quirked an eyebrow and smiled, open and honest.

John cleared his throat and looked briefly at his computer screen. Work, work, work, work. Mycroft's words about his "half-existence" came back to haunt him. True, the evening with Greg had been miserable but surely going out with Sarah would be different? She had not liked Sherlock so the possibility of them spending half the evening discussing him was narrow. What would be the harm in going out for dinner and drinks then?

"Sure. What time?"

The entire time during their date, John felt absolutely miserable. He felt as if he were betraying Sherlock in the worst way- and wasn't _that_ a bit odd?- and could barely concentrate on what Sarah was saying, though she was obviously animated about it. She kept shooting him coy glances and smiling and all John could think of was ending the date and making his way back to his flat so he could curl up and die. He felt awful, but somehow he must have been behaving correctly because Sarah did not seem to suspect anything was wrong with her date. When they finally walked back to her flat, she took John's hand, surprising him, and asked him in for coffee.

His mind froze. "Sarah, um…we'll probably have a busy day tomorrow. I'll just be off and make sure you get plenty of sleep." John attempted a smile that made his face feel horribly stretched and painful.

"Oh, well, right, of course. A good sleep is very important for a long day at the office." Sarah said quickly, then bit her lip and looked back up at John. "How about you just come in then and not for coffee?"

"Sarah…I- no, thank you. I can't, I'm sorry." John felt so miserable he could not even care that he was being awkward as arse and embarrassing himself. Smooth, Watson, real smooth. "Thank for the offer though." Came out of his mouth before he could stop it and even _he_ winced at that.

Sarah blinked, her eyes large, watching him fidget, then squeezed the hand she still held in hers. "It's…fine, John. I know tonight must have been hard on you, with Sherlock's-"

"I must be getting back now, it's late. See you tomorrow, Sarah." John managed to extract himself from Sarah and walked back down the sidewalk, the sound of his cane hitting the concrete loud in the darkness, and if he walked a little faster than normal that was ok, because he was definitely not running away.

"Even in death you're a cock-blocking bastard aren't you, Sherlock?" John muttered to himself. If he listened hard enough, he could almost swear he heard Sherlock laughing.

The wind was cold at this time of night and John was grateful for it. It cleared the haze out of his head and allowed him to reflect over how the night had gone so wrong. It was because of Sherlock, he knew this. _Duh_, his mind snarked and he allowed himself a small smile. It was more than that, though, and he groaned because he knew where this was going, a place he had managed to mostly avoid since Sherlock's death. He, John Hamish Watson, was in love with Sherlock 'married-to-my-work' Holmes and had been since their first meeting at Bart's.

The first time Sherlock had looked up and met his eyes, John had felt his heart stop, then restart again at a brisk pace. He had later put this down to being surprised at Sherlock's brilliance, but even in his mind he had known this was not true. Throughout their friendship, John had managed to convince himself that he was not in love with Sherlock, not lusting after his flat-mate and best friend. It was probably perfectly natural, after close brushes with death, to want to fuck one's flat-mate against the wall just to prove that they were still alive. It was probably due to adrenaline. If John had the occasional erotic dream about Sherlock, well, that was probably stress. Stress acted on the body in weird ways. Now, John shook his head when he realized how he had deluded himself.

There had been little touches, lingering eye contact, close proximities that had made John ache to reach out to Sherlock, step up and press his lips to Sherlock's. But he had not…and now he never would. He choked back a sob and walked faster, his cane striking the pavement with every step. It was a lonely sound that echoed into the night.


	4. Chapter 4

**Hello everyone! I first off want to thank everyone who has favorited, followed, or just plain likes this story. Any mistakes made are all my own. I have the next chapter already written. I only need to edit it and make sure everything is favorable. Enjoy this little interlude!**

* * *

Six months after his disastrous date with Sarah, John was still numb. Oh, he was much better, at least on the outside. He regularly went out to the pub with Greg. They had not talked about Sherlock since that horrible first night and it was understood by Greg that the minute John's hands started shaking, he would leave. Greg quickly learned to avoid any topic that created this reaction. John was now speaking more to Mrs. Hudson and the two of them ate dinner together at least twice a week. These times were still painful for John because, as much as he loved the landlady, she persisted in speaking of Sherlock. He found himself laughing sometimes despite himself at Mrs. Hudson's memories of Sherlock's more gruesome human remains she had found in the fridge, as well as remembrances of the detective's enthusiasm for his work.

John knew this was healthy, that her reaction to Sherlock's death was normal and even expected. Eighteen months after a loved one's death, a normal person may still feel occasionally sad, but they were not debilitated by it. They were able to move on, be happy, live their life. John felt able to do none of these things, at least not happily. He tried, he really tried, but he still felt like he had after returning from Afghanistan. He was numb, living in a bubble, all emotions muted. Sometimes he wondered if his reaction would have been different if he had not seen Sherlock commit suicide. Or if, perhaps, Sherlock had been killed while working on one of his more dangerous cases, a tragic accident. Would John have been able to move on by now, bring closure to his pain?

He still worked long hours at the surgery but did not go out again with Sarah or anyone else for that matter. She never asked, but still smiled and dropped hints but John never took her up on the offer. He could not stomach the idea of forcing himself through another date and knew that it was not fair to her. Sarah was a good woman, she deserved a better man than he could manage to be at the moment. He was not good for anyone, least of all himself.

* * *

The dream started again. He had been having a normal, random dream (something to do with Mrs. Hudson's jammy dodgers tap dancing across the table in petri dishes) when the dream switched, becoming darker, more familiar, making his heart pound and his stomach clench. The long distance made it impossible for him to clearly see John's face but his immense mind unhelpfully supplied the look of shock, disbelief, and fright that crossed the doctor's face as he stared up at Sherlock, a lone figure on the roof of St. Bart's, prepared to jump.

"Nobody could be that clever."

"You could."

Sherlock shivered at the sound of John's voice. He was thankful in that moment that he had a wonderful memory that had recorded the exact way John's voice sounded. It was the one sound he had most wanted to hear over the last 18 months. It was delicious, it was comforting, it was _home_.

"This is my note."

"Sherlock….no, just…Sherlock. You can't leave me. I love you. I love you, you amazing genius, and I cannot imagine a life without you. I have been in love with you since the first moment I saw you and…I- I want to be with you, grow old with you. I want to-to move to the country and raise bees with you, I don't care as long as I'm with you. I love you, Sherlock. Please…please don't leave me."

Those words seared him to the core, made his breath catch, his heart pound. Sociopaths, no matter how high functioning, were not supposed to feel, not supposed to feel this strongly. Sherlock had no time to feel now. He could not come away from the ledge and run down to John, could not take the shorter man in his arms and kiss him until he couldn't breathe and declare his love. Somewhere, probably in the buildings opposite him, was an assassin ready to kill John if Sherlock did not jump. That was not going to happen.

"I've always loved you, John." He whispered it so quietly he was sure John would not hear it, but he knew he had to say it before he left him. He had to at least have said the words before he destroyed the most important thing in his life- his relationship with John. John was loyal. Even if he believed that Sherlock was a fraud now, he would eventually question his reasoning and believe in him again. No, Sherlock knew it would destroy John to see Sherlock fall, seemingly commit suicide in front of his very eyes, and could never forgive him. In that moment, Sherlock mourned for his lost friendship, his lost love, destroyed before it had even taken place, and then he said goodbye to the most important person in his life. And fell.

Sherlock jerked awake, his eyes flying open wide, and he gasped in a great lungful of cold, clean air. His cheeks were wet with tears and his hands, when he reached up to wipe his face, were trembling. He stared at this, the way his own body betrayed him, but could not bring it under control. Forcing himself into a sitting position, though every bone in his body ached and creaked as if he were an old man, Sherlock looked out of the high window. The stars swam above him and he remembered, as if from another lifetime, looking up at the stars with John.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Sherlock had murmured, gazing upwards to the stars that were like diamond pin pricks above them.

"I thought you didn't care for the solar system." John had replied. Sherlock smirked remembering John's insistence that he learn all the planets. Boring.

"Doesn't mean I can't admire it," he had whispered back. In so many ways, he had come to realize, the stars were like John Watson to him. Sherlock could look at them, admire their beauty and light, but could come no closer to touching them than he was right now, kipping in a darkened barn in the middle of nowhere. John was thousands of miles away and even if he wasn't, even if Sherlock were in the flat in Baker Street, John would still have been as inaccessible to him as the stars.

He missed London with its gritty, city air and honking cars. He missed Lestrade and almost everyone at Scotland Yard, working cases with dead ends, growing more excited as the possibilities became more and more improbable. He even missed Mycroft with his incessant hovering and his cameras. He missed Mrs. Hudson and 221B Baker Street, his violin, his skull, his own clothes and feeling like himself. Most of all, he missed _John_. _John_ making tea in the kitchen and complaining about the body parts in the fridge_. John_ who fell asleep in front of the telly and snored and Sherlock let him just to be able to watch him sleep. _John_ whose touch was electric and whose presence was heady, making Sherlock want things he didn't even want to desire. _John_ who called him amazing and would follow him to the ends of the earth. John, John, John.

Looking up at the stars, millions and millions of miles away, Sherlock reached a decision.

It was time to go home.


	5. Chapter 5

**The Reunion!  
**

**Thanks so much to everyone who is reading and enjoying this fic! You have inspired me, truly! Reading your reviews makes my day and I must ask, beg, plead, and cajole you all to please keep it up and let me know what you are thinking! I'm sorry this chapter is rather short but I promise to update in the next 24 hours with the next chapter in which Sherlock has some explaining to do to a very shaken and upset John. Enjoy :)**

The day started like any other rainy day in London. John awoke after blessedly not dreaming, and made breakfast. He was on time to work and none of his patients expelled any bodily fluids in his office that required clean-up. By the time John left work late that night the rain was still on, but John felt oddly… cheerful. Sometimes, life gave you an ok day and John accepted these, as they came rarely. He knew it would pass soon enough and he would be numb again, probably by the time he went to bed tonight, so he forced himself to not think and just enjoy the feelings.

When he made it to 221B, he noticed all the lights were on in the flat, though he was sure that he had turned them off before leaving for work. He may be making more money but he was still economical and turning off the lights helped conserve on the bill. Sighing, trying to figure out how he could have forgotten such a routine thing as the lights, John extracted his key and opened the door. The delicious smells of baking came from Mrs. Hudson's flat and John smiled, hoping that the old lady would bring him any food she "accidentally made extra" of. It was such a feeble but adorable excuse and one that John was beginning to count on.

John limped up the stairs, fumbling only slightly with his cane, and opened the door to the flat. Before him stood a tall, impeccably dressed young man with wildly curling hair, prominent cheekbones, and piercing blue eyes which were now staring right at him. A brilliant smile covered the young man's face, a face John had never expected to see in this lifetime again. John gasped, stumbled forward towards the man, swayed, and then promptly passed out.

* * *

"John! Oh, dear, _John_! Wake up now, dear, _wake up_! Sherlock, what have you done?" Mrs. Hudson's voice asked accusingly as her wrinkled hands gently smoothed over John's face with a wet cloth. There was a deep, amused chuckle from somewhere above him and John's stomach clenched pleasantly at the sound.

"Nothing, I assure you, Mrs. Hudson. He only just saw me before fainting in the doorway. His reaction surprised _me_. That is why he hit the floor. If I had expected him to faint I would have caught him." This last was said with stiff haughtiness and a sniff.

_John. John. John. John_. Finally, after a year and a half, he was back and John was just _there_, within Sherlock's range of , John was sprawled in an undignified position on the floor and was presently unconscious, but Sherlock felt as if he had never seen a better sight. He knew he was smiling but he could not keep his expression schooled. He felt giddy, exuberant,_ happy_. A whole part of him had been missing for the past year and half and now, here he was, back at 221B Baker Street. Whole.

John groaned and stirred, trying to rid himself of the annoying cloth that was wetting his hair, and opened his eyes. His eyes immediately fell on the one figure for which his heart had been searching for the past 18 months. There, standing a few feet away from him, hands jammed in the pockets of his tailored pants, hair curling wildly, eyes bright with mirth, looking straight at him, looking as if he had never been away- was Sherlock Holmes. John just lay on the floor and gaped like the idiot Sherlock had called him on more than one occasion, and Sherlock looked right back at him. Mrs. Hudson was saying something and was patting John's hand and smiling and laughing, looking from Sherlock to John, but John was not aware of what she was saying. All that mattered was Sherlock. Sherlock, _alive_?

" …"John gasped, tearing his eyes away from Sherlock and grasping the old lady's hand desperately. "You- you can see him too? Can't you? Sherlock? He's really here?"

They both looked at Sherlock who frowned down at them. "Yes, John, I'm really here, obviously. Alive and well. Come on, this is not the conversation to have on the floor."

Sherlock offered John his hand and John stared at it as if he were afraid it would disappear the moment he touched it. He looked torn, conflicted, and Sherlock's heart beat slowed with dread, afraid John would refuse him, reject him. He had worried about that for months- but John then slowly raised his own hand and placed it in Sherlock's. He gasped when the younger man clutched at his hand and managed to leverage him to his feet.

"_Jesus_." John breathed, refusing to let Sherlock's hand go, though the Sherlock himself had made no attempt to withdraw his own and was now actually gripping John's hand with both of his.

Now that John was on his feet, though reality was still far from feeling settled- was Sherlock really alive?- he saw that Sherlock did _not_ look as if he had never been away, as John had first thought. He looked…different. He had lost weight, significantly, and John frowned at this. The consulting detective had not had much weight to lose and this showed in sharp angles and hollow cheekbones. Even his hands on John's felt bony and shrunken. His eyes also…there was something about his eyes that John did not like. They were the same blue-green hue they had always been, but now they held a darkness, a hardness that John found he did not like at all.

John wanted to say something sweet, something suave, one of the many, many declarations he had wanted to tell Sherlock all those long months. He opened his mouth but all that came out was…

"Sherlock…you _died_." John's voice came out very high pitched, weak and thready, and he realized he was shaking, his entire body was shaking very hard. Every muscle was clenching and unclenching, his teeth were chattering, and his heart was pounding out of his chest.

Sherlock gazed down at John, worried at his reaction. "John, I-"

"I love you." John squeaked. "That's what I meant to say. Sh-Sherlock, I l-love y-you. W-wanted to say it all…all these m-months but…well." He shrugged vaguely. "Please help me sit down." He gasped before his knees buckled and Sherlock went down with him, too weak to hold up the compact little army doctor.

It took many minutes before John was composed enough to manage to walk to his armchair, and once there Mrs. Hudson pressed a hot cup of tea into his hands along with a biscuit, both heavily sugared, to steady his nerves. John's eyes never left Sherlock's and Sherlock maintained not only eye contact with him but also kept a steady hand on some part of John whenever he moved, to reassure both of them, it seemed, that Sherlock was really back.


	6. Chapter 6

**Once again, thanks to everyone for reading, reviewing, and liking my fic! I had already written this and was waiting to edit it tomorrow but I forged ahead tonight and here it is! Any mistakes are all my own due to sleeplessness. I hope you enjoy this, I am no Sherlock so sorry if it is feeble. IwillYURIforYAOI, here is more! :)**

Knowing John was on the verge of hysterics, Sherlock managed not to roll his eyes. But it was close. He did hate to repeat himself. "No, I _explained_ all of this to you, John. I merely faked my death to trump Moriarty. He had assassins ready to kill you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. I prevented that by faking my _own_ death. It was really extraordinarily genius on my part. I-"

"It was really extraordinarily _stupid_, you mean! Sherlock, you made me watch you kill yourself." John protested angrily from his seat in his armchair. Mrs. Hudson, after being assured that John was fine, had retreated back downstairs to continue her late-night cooking spree and leave the boys to sort themselves out. She had clucked over Sherlock's extreme weight loss and was determined to force a decent meal down him tonight. John could not have agreed with her more, but at the moment he had more pressing matters to deal with. Like the fact that his best friend, the man he loved more than anyone else in the world, had cruelly deceived him.

"No, John, _I just told you_. I didn't really die! It was all a magic trick! Just an illusion." Sherlock was pacing about the main room, running his hands through his hair and looking annoyed. It was obviously not the way he had imagined his homecoming to be but John did not care. He was _pissed_.

"How was I to know that?!" John snapped. "I was not aware that it was just a magic trick. I thought it was real, Sherlock!"

"_Of course_, John! That was what you were supposed to think! I had to have a witness to my fake death, someone who could be depended upon. You were the obvious choice." Sherlock did not meet John's eyes when he said this, a fact that John noted.

"You…you _used me_. You made me watch you commit suicide and…and used my grief to achieve your own ends." John said slowly, as if he were unable to believe what he was saying. "You have no idea what I have been through this last year. I tried to-" _No_. He shut that thought down. He would not tell Sherlock that. Not only was it a pathetic story that made John's insides squirm in embarrassment but now it would just serve to highlight how much of an idiot John had been made to be.

Sherlock made an impatient gesture with his hand, striding about the room. "It was _necessary_, John, you have to see that. Your grief saved not only your life but Mrs. Hudson's and Lestrade's as well. It enabled me to travel the world, dismantling Moriarty's web one strand at a time. And come back home…to _you_." He turned and looked at John, his eyes full of emotion.

John had his eyes tightly closed, his hands clenched on his cane. Sherlock eyed the thing with distaste. Why was John using it again? He felt a stab of genuine guilt when he realized that John may have started using it again because of his death. He supposed that since he had been part of the reason John's psychosomatic limp had been cured, it was only natural that if John believed him dead- was forced to watch him kill himself- the limp would return. Sherlock did not like this.

"Do you have any idea what I have been through this past year? Do you, Sherlock? Because it's been hell."

Sherlock thought about his time apart from John and shuddered. "I have some idea, yes."

John jerked his head up to look at Sherlock, his eyes searching, again taking in Sherlock's thin, starved appearance and his eyes…his eyes that looked so haunted. He swallowed, some of his anger fading away.

"Maybe you do."

Their eyes met and held. Sherlock swayed towards John but kept his feet firmly where he was. He had allowed himself to believe that John would be so happy, so relieved, that Sherlock was not dead that John would forget how Sherlock had gone away. He would forget that Sherlock, for all intents and purposes, had killed himself in front of John 18 months ago. His heart sank when he realized this had been a foolish thing to think. Yes, John was obviously happy he was back, and yes, there was definitely relief. But John was now upset, was now remembering. Sherlock felt panic start to claw its way into his chest. What if John no longer wanted him around? What if John moved out? What if, now knowing the truth, John realized he no longer loved Sherlock? What if he had already got over it? These were questions Sherlock had been trying to repress for months, 18 months to be precise, and he found that now, facing John, those questions were going to be answered. He only hoped he liked the answers John gave him.

"Yoohoo, boys! Come help me carry all this!" Mrs. Hudson's cheery voice broke the moment and John looked away, standing up rather shakily and using his cane to limp to the top of the stairs. Mrs. Hudson was already almost to the top, her arms laden with so much food Sherlock found himself grinning.

"Mrs. Hudson, you cannot expect me to eat all of that tonight."

She threw him a sunny smile. "No, dear, of course not. But I expect to see you tuck into a lot of it tonight, Sherlock Holmes. You're far too skinny, love." She said sternly and Sherlock watched as John helped her set places at the table and arrange the food.

The first bite was heaven and Sherlock managed enough dignity not to allow his eyes to roll back in his head and groan in sheer pleasure. He was eternally grateful he had control of his transport. John and Mrs. Hudson were watching him as it was which was very annoying. He did manage to eat a staggering amount of food, which displeased him, but it seemed that his body had been starved long enough and refused to allow him to stop. Eventually, it was John who intervened and asked when his last meal had been.

Sherlock waved a fork of steak and kidney pie. "At least a week ago, perhaps a bit longer. Why?" his nonchalance obviously did not work as John stared at him in horror and Mrs. Hudson tsked and looked disapproving.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It was not as if I were staying in a four star hostel that had room service." He dipped his spoon back into the potatoes with relish.

John eventually stopped Sherlock's eating, something neither of them thought John would ever do, but he did so purely for medical reasons. "If you have really not eaten a thing in that amount of time, if you keep eating you'll just make yourself sick and all of it will come back up. You need to stop while you're ahead and keep those calories in as best you can. Come on, you take a shower and I'll make your bed up."

"To sleep in my old bed again." Sherlock had an enraptured look on his face. "That, my dear doctor, is heaven on earth. You have no idea some of the places I have slept in this past year and a half."

"I expect you to tell me, Sherlock. I expect you to tell me everything." John said in a low voice, his searching over Sherlock's face with intensity. Sherlock realized their conversation was not over, was just postponed, but at least John was not storming out of the flat, refusing to speak to him. Perhaps everything would work out.


	7. Chapter 7

**Many, many thanks to those who had followed, favorited, and reviewed this fic! I love you all! Here is the next chapter and I hope you like it. There is still more to come- who can guess what Sherlock's secret is? Any mistakes are all my own. Reviews would be so very lovely- if you could leave one I would be inspired to write faster, I am sure :)**

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When John woke up the next morning, he was confused. He had just had the best night's rest he could remember. His head felt all wrong and his heart was leaping in his chest with…happiness? Purpose? Hope? He rolled onto his back and grinned at the ceiling, and wasn't that just odd? Then the events of last night came crashing down on him like a bucket of ice water. He gasped and flung back his covers, running from his room at a dead sprint and flying down the stairs. He skidded around the doorway and stopped, staring at Sherlock who sat in his usual armchair, his violin positioned under his chin and the bow raised as if to play a note. He quirked an eyebrow at John and let his gaze roam down John's bare chest, eyes lingering at the frankly horrific scar at his left shoulder, then further down, taking in John's soft cotton pajama bottoms and bare feet.

"You're still here." John said stupidly, still staring, unaware that he was being appraised.

Sherlock's face split into a wide grin and he lowered his violin. "Obviously."

"Good morning, John."

John literally jumped into the air at the calm voice of Mycroft who was seated in John's usual chair, directly in front of Sherlock. How had he not seen him? Suddenly, John became very much aware of his lack of clothing, of his scar on lurid display, of being deduced by two of the smartest men in England. He was not cool enough to affect a calm exit. Instead, he turned smartly around, cheeks and ears burning, and jogged back up the stairs. It was only when he was back in his room, searching for clean clothes to wear, that his eyes alighted on his cane and he realized he had ran down the stairs and back up without it. John grinned so large he felt his face might split in two.

* * *

"Well, it seems you have made fools of us all, dear brother." Mycroft said dryly, studying his umbrella handle and refusing to meet Sherlock's gaze. Sherlock found this delightful and could not keep the smug smile from his face.

"It bothers you that I fooled you." He said, chuckling and observing the pink tinge that appeared on Mycroft's cheeks.

"It bothers me that you made me think you were dead for the last year and a half." Mycroft replied softly, as if to voice such an emotion aloud was shameful.

Sherlock snorted. "Your pride was all that was hurt. We all know that you don't actually _care _about me. I'm surprised that you never caught word of me. I _was_ taking out an extensive crime network across Europe. Losing your touch? Perhaps it is too much cake. Your diet seems to have suffered in my absence."

Mycroft regarded his brother shrewdly, noting the hollows of his cheeks, the dark circles under his eyes, the way his hands were ever so slightly shaking. The sight made a sick feeling lodge in his stomach. He knew Sherlock's game: distraction, make Mycroft so angry that he stormed out and did not notice the telltale signs on his brother. Mycroft was too clever for that ploy to work now.

But he was happy to have his little brother back, overjoyed, stunned. Yes, it bothered him that he had been outsmarted by Sherlock, but that was perhaps because he was the big brother and little brother's were always such a pain. Mycroft studied the rest of Sherlock's too lean frame and heaved a sigh. He could give his brother this day, one day. He smiled blandly at him. "It is good to have you back, Sherlock."

* * *

When John came downstairs, he found Sherlock seated at the table being fussed over by a pink-faced Mrs. Hudson who had brought up so much food it looked as if she were planning to feed a small army. Mycroft was standing to the side, leaning on his umbrella and studying his brother. When John appeared, he began to study Sherlock as well. There was that darkness in his eyes, even when he was smiling, that John found unsettling. It was so different from how Sherlock had looked before he left. He could not help wondering what had happened, what had put that look in his eyes?

"We've got to feed you up, Sherlock." Mrs. Hudson was saying affectionately, spooning copious amounts of eggs onto Sherlock's plate along with a few fat sausages and triangles of toast. "Whatever were you living on? You're thinner than ever."

John noticed Sherlock's eyes flicked over to Mycroft before turning back to Mrs. Hudson and smiling blandly. "I don't want to gain too much weight, Mrs. Hudson. I don't want to end up looking like Mycroft."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "If such childishness is going to continue I will take my leave. Expect to hear from me very, _very_ soon. Dear brother, so happy you are back in the land of the living. _John._"

Mycroft seemed to give him a significant look but John was too preoccupied with staring happily at the sight of Sherlock tucking grudgingly into a proper breakfast, a sight he had never thought to ever see.

* * *

"Sherlock…we have to talk."

Sherlock opened his eyes from where he was reclining on the couch, his precious skull balanced on his chest, a comforting weight over his heart. John was standing beside the couch, staring at him, and Sherlock took a moment to just look at him, clad in a silly striped jumper and jeans. There was more grey hair at his temples than there had been when he left and more wrinkles, but he was still handsome, still every inch the army doctor. Still John. It was the best sight for sore eyes.

"What about? I explained everything to you last night, John." Sherlock started to close his eyes again but John sat down beside him, making him make room for his bottom. Sherlock stared at him in surprise.

"I don't mean that. I mean, you, we need to talk about you."

Sherlock's heart fluttered horribly and he thought for one sickening minute that John _knew_ but then-

"You've changed. You've lost so much weight, yes, but there's something else, something you're not telling me. It's in your eyes, it's there right now. You look…haunted. I was a soldier, I've seen that look before." John cleared his throat and looked at Sherlock, straight into his eyes and Sherlock's heart began beating in double time. "I won't force you to tell me and I obviously am not smart enough to deduce it…but I ask, as your friend, for you to tell me. I want to help you."

The seconds ticked by as the two of them stared into each other's eyes. Sherlock finally blinked and looked away, grabbing the skull and wriggling about until he was able to get off the couch. He walked over to place the skull back on the mantelpiece- he had been very surprised that all of his things were still exactly where he had left them more than a year ago- and stayed with his back to John.

Should he tell him? _Could_ he tell him? How would John react? It was always almost impossible to know how John would act. Sherlock would make a perfectly logical deduction over how John would act to a stimulus and then John would go and act the exact opposite. It was enough to drive him mad. Now, it was enough to rip him apart because…he _wanted_ to tell John. He didn't want to keep such horrible secrets from him but…would John be able to accept him? Or would he turn away in disgust?

"I've killed people, John. They were not good people, they were responsible for taking many other's lives and would have continued killed if I had not stopped them." Sherlock said in a sudden rush, turning back to look at John who was still sitting on the sofa. He had to see his face and observe his every reaction.

John did not seem very surprised. "And these people…they were part of Moriarty's web?"

"Yes." Sherlock held his breath and waited. John could reject him now, could turn away from him in fear and revulsion. He was a murderer.

"Right. Well, that's less rubbish in the world then." John smiled up at Sherlock whose mouth dropped open in complete surprise. John grinned at his expression, his eyes softening as he looked at him. "Did you expect that to shock me? I may be an idiot, as you so often call me, but I worked that one out last night. If you were really going to take down Moriarty's web, it was obvious you would be killing." He rose and walked over to where Sherlock still stood stock still, gazing down at John in disbelief.

"I was a solider, remember? I've killed people too, probably for less noble reasons than you did." He gently took one of Sherlock's hands in his. Sherlock's eyes flew down to take in this sight. "I only hate that _you_ had to do the killing. I hate that you were in that situation and forced to act in that way."

Sherlock swallowed audibly and opened his mouth but no words came out. He took in a shuddering breath and squared his shoulders but kept his head down and stared at their entwined hands. "I enjoyed killing some of them." He confessed in a small voice. John's heart lurched and he tightened his grip on Sherlock's hand. "It felt right killing them, knowing they would not be able to kill others, that I was protecting you, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson but…I hated feeling that way. Feeling happy at taking a life. I started to think maybe I was becoming just like them…a heartless monster."

John remembered, as if from another lifetime, Sherlock declaring that he did not have a heart and Moriarty replying that "we both know that's not true." It seemed that Sherlock had discovered his heart, after all.

"Look at me." John commanded, bringing their joined hands up to his chest and holding it there. Slowly, Sherlock's eyes followed their hand's path, then slowly traveled upwards to meet John's eyes. John's heart broke. There was so much pain reflected in Sherlock's eyes, so much doubt, fear that he was a monster, that perhaps something inside him was irreparably damaged.

"You are not a monster." John said, his voice strong and sure. "You were forced to do horrific things in order to make the world a safer place, in order to save the ones you loved. Your reasons were noble and just and pure. _You're amazing_. No one could ever compare to how brilliant and selfless you are. I love you, Sherlock, and you are no monster. I have met human monsters and so have you. Monsters don't feel worried about being a monster, about damaging their hearts. They kill to make themselves feel good, not for the safety of others. You are no monster."

Sherlock sighed shakily and gripped John's hand hard. He swayed forward and touched his forehead to John's, closing his eyes and leaning into the shorter man as if he were absorbing his strength. John snaked his other arm around Sherlock's back and held the taller man to him, closing his eyes and breathing in the scent of Sherlock, falling in love with him all over again.


	8. Chapter 8

**I hope everyone enjoys the latest chapter and thanks for sticking with me. I love Romantically Awkward Sherlock, Soft Sherlock, and Awkward Sherlock- and here's a treat: this chapter contains all 3! **

**Rodacoma- I agree!****  
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**iSam101- It seems odd to be glad that you almost cried...but I am. It makes me feel like a good writer. :S Sorry! Lol  
**

**Johnsarmylady- Yes, yes he does.  
**

_Sherlock sighed shakily and gripped John's hand hard. He swayed forward and touched his forehead to John's, closing his eyes and leaning into the shorter man as if he were absorbing his strength. John snaked his other arm around Sherlock's back and held the taller man to him, closing his eyes and breathing in the scent of Sherlock, falling in love with him all over again._

Sherlock breathed in John's unique scent- tea, laundry detergent, soap, something very much _John_- and allowed it to ground him, center him, and lost himself in John's strength. He knew what he wanted in this moment, knew that he would not be rejected. It was not hard for Sherlock to bend his neck, tilt his head, and brush his lips against John's. John gasped but did not pull away, his grip tightening on Sherlock's hand that was still held between their chests. His eyes fluttered closed so Sherlock pressed closer, kissing John again, feeling the smaller man's heart pound beneath their joined hands with a surge of triumph and relief. He raised his other hand and roamed up John's back, splaying his fingers out and pressing, making sure John could not get away from him. He wanted to be as close as possible. Sherlock jerked when he felt the tentative touch of John's tongue and he opened his mouth, surrendering with a delicious shudder to John's slow exploration.

John's hand came up to cup Sherlock's cheek and his thumb stroked the smooth skin, soothing Sherlock and keeping the kiss light and unhurried. John was overwhelmed with emotions, overwhelmed with the situation he found himself in but he knew that he did not want to rush this, wanted to prolong this moment. It was a moment he had been dreaming of for years and he wanted to make sure it was absolutely perfect.

It was the sweetest kiss Sherlock had ever received, not that he had received many, and he sighed against John's mouth. John's lips and tongue moved unhurriedly over his, touching, tasting, teasing…just being there, pressing delicately, then moving away only to repeat the feeling again and again. Sherlock could feel himself shaking and, to his great embarrassment, a tear escaped his eye and trailed down to where John's hand cupped his cheek.

John pulled away, wiped the tear away, then gently kissed Sherlock again. This gentleness provoked more tears, and before Sherlock could stop them, he was crying hot, heavy tears that fell from beneath his closed lids and streaked down his face. And John was there, John murmuring against his lips that he loved him, that he was so happy he was back, that he was a beautiful idiot, that Sherlock was finally home and John would never let him leave again. Sherlock reveled in John's comfort until he felt ashamed at showing such weakness and pulled away, huffing out a big breath and clearing his throat.

"I'm sorry," he began, his voice formal and apologetic but John pulled him back and kissed him once more, his lips gentle and sure, coaxing a response from Sherlock and smiling against his lips when he received one.

"Don't be an idiot." John said, finally releasing Sherlock. "I love you."

"You keep saying that." Sherlock sniffed, pulling his hand away from John's but allowing his fingers to trail, relishing the contact with his doctor.

John cleared his throat and looked uncomfortable and the moment between them evaporated. Sherlock mentally kicked himself and wished he had kept his mouth shut.

"Does it…um, does my saying it bother you?" John asked, avoiding eye contact and walking away from Sherlock, returning to sit on the sofa and fiddle with a newspaper that was lying there.

"Why would it?" Sherlock replied, stalling.

"I know what you think of sentiment, Sherlock. You told me…that day. Chemical defect found in the losing side, remember?" John ran his hands through his hair, making the strands stand adorably on end. He looked like he had been electrocuted. Sherlock wondered if John's hair would like that way if _he_ ran his hands through it, gripped it as he kissed him. What would it look like after Sherlock had his wicked way with him? Sherlock filed these thoughts away for later and tried to listen to what John was saying.

"Before…_that day_…I guess I would agree with you just to get along with you, to keep from disgusting you with my sentiments but…I'm tired of denying it. I denied it the whole time we were together _before_…and I spent the last year and a half regretting that I wasted all that time I had with you. So…if it doesn't bother you, Sherlock…I'm going to keep saying it. I don't care if you think it makes me…I don't know, weak." He raised his eyes and looked at Sherlock. "I love you. If loving you is a defect, then I will be on the losing side every time."

Sherlock dithered on the spot, jamming his hands in his pockets, and didn't know what to do. He realized it had been easier to tell John he loved him when he was about to "die," when he did not have to look John straight in the face from 8 feet away. The words were stuck somewhere in his throat and he could not get them out. He felt as if he would choke on them. Why would John want Sherlock to love him, anyway? A damaged sociopath with a dark past? Who wanted that?

"That's…uh…"Sherlock cleared his throat, and turned to the windows. "That's very…um, very good, John."

He heard John exhale behind him and they stayed in their positions for a few awkward minutes, Sherlock deducing at lightning fast speed, calculating, weighing the odds, analyzing past reactions versus present actions. Finally, John, resigned and hurt, realizing he was not going to receive a declaration from Sherlock, rose to his feet and moved towards the door. Sherlock heard the rustle of his jacket and realized John was going out- John was leaving. Past experience told him it was to get some air, he would walk around for a bit and then come home in a better mood. The panic in his chest, however, told him otherwise. For a few seconds, Sherlock had a violent war between his logical brain that told him to let John go and his heart which screamed at him to stop John and tell him he loved him, not to let him get away. He had longed for John the whole time he was away- he couldn't let him go now!

It was a brief war.

Sherlock spun around and dashed after John, flying down the stairs and catching up to him just as he was at the bottom step, his hand reaching for the door handle.

"John!" he yelled, reaching for the man and spinning him around, pinning him to the door roughly. John's eyes were huge, shocked, still hurt. He opened his mouth to protest, to ask Sherlock what the fuck-?

"I love you!" Sherlock, said breathlessly, shaking John slightly. Sherlock knew he was damaged, had a shady past, had hurt John and would probably hurt him repeatedly, on purpose and accidentally. He was selfish, though, and he wanted _John_. "I _do_ love you. Don't go!"

John stared at Sherlock, who was obviously in distress, in complete surprise. "Wh- Sherlock, I wasn't _leaving_ I was just going...Wait. You love me?"

Sherlock frowned, annoyed at repeating himself. This, more than anything, made John realize he meant it and he smiled up at him. "_Yes_, didn't I just say that in a rather loud and obvious way?"

John shook his head. "Sherlock…look, I'm sorry, I just wasn't expecting…"he looked up at the man again, his smile growing larger and his eyes full of hope. "You really love me?"

Sherlock fixed John with his best _I know what you're doing and it won't work_ look. Except it did work, because Sherlock, even while giving John this look, replied, "_Yes_. Now, there's no reason for you to leave. Come back upstairs." He tugged on John's hands, pulling him away from the door with every intention of towing the smaller man back upstairs.

John smiled, pulling against Sherlock while holding his hands tighter so he would not get away. "Why don't we both go out? You haven't told everyone else you're alive, have you?"

The devious grin Sherlock gave him made John very sorry he had mentioned the topic.


	9. Chapter 9

**Hello Everyone! This was originally a huge chapter but I decided to split it in two so Chapter 10 will be up very shortly so stay tuned! Enjoy! :)**

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John felt buoyant, like a balloon had filled inside his chest and he was about to float away with every step. He was giddy with happiness, his stomach fluttered pleasantly, his heart skipped beats, and he wondered if a person could die from happiness. It was all because the man who was walking beside him, the man he had never thought to see in this lifetime, was back, _was alive_. _He had been alive all along_- but John pushed that bitter, choking thought away. He would not let that darkness ruin a good day, the first day he had back with Sherlock. There was time for them to talk another time, they could talk another day- just not today. John was determined to have this day for himself and Sherlock. He grinned.

Sherlock was beside him, his hands in the pockets of his now too-big coat, his face turning this way and that, taking in all the sights of London. It was obvious he had missed it, from the way he smiled at random objects and breathed the clogged air deeply. He walked with his back straight, a small smile playing about his lips, and he occasionally glanced at the short man beside him, pleased that he was back, that John was there. He had missed John by his side.

He had another reason for getting Sherlock out of the flat- he was having a hard time keeping his hands to himself. With Sherlock tugging him back up the stairs, John could just imagine, once they were there, pinning Sherlock to the wall and fulfilling another fantasy of his. The first had been kissing Sherlock. There were hundreds more, bombarding John's thoughts as he walked beside Sherlock down the street. Sherlock had told him he loved him, that was another fantasy fulfilled. John knew he had waited so long to finally be with Sherlock but this…this could not be rushed. He did not want to rush it. Besides, they had all the time in the world.

* * *

John barely had time to register the shocked faces that greeted their arrival at Scotland Yard before Lestrade purposefully stepped forward and punched Sherlock as hard as he could in the face. Sherlock went down hard, Lestrade turned away shaking his hand, and there were gasps and screams all around. John could only stare in shock at Sherlock, who was flat on his back, cradling his face, and Greg whose face was dark and angry as he stared at the young man. He looked as if he were contemplating doing it again, which may have been the reason Sherlock remained on the floor.

"Your brother called me this morning to let me know you were still alive and tell me about the stunt you pulled. You're a right bastard, you know that?" Lestrade fumed, his fists clenched at his sides.

"I fail to see how that deserves such a dramatic reaction." Sherlock said drily, sitting up, his hand clamped about his cheek. John saw no blood and relaxed.

"Well, you sort of deserved it." John said quietly, and Sherlock turned to stare at him with wide eyes.

He felt wrong-footed. He had expected this sort of behavior from John, not Lestrade. Sherlock carefully maneuvered himself into a standing position and refused to back down when Greg came closer, his face still angry. It was obvious he was still furious but now that he was closer, Sherlock could see the softening around his mouth that spoke more of his disappointment than 'punch Sherlock' anger.

"I want a word with you, _now._" Lestrade turned and walked back to his office, leaving the door open. John expected Sherlock to refuse to go, ignore the order, but instead he walked after Greg, although not before rolling his eyes.

Sherlock closed the door behind him and looked at the older man who had walked to the farthest corner of his office, closed his eyes, and was rubbing his temples with his fingertips in an attempt to calm himself.

"It's good to see you again too, Lestrade." Sherlock said sarcastically, smiling insincerely. He _was_ rather glad to see Lestrade again, but oddly enough that punch had taken much of his happiness away.

"You should have seen how he was when you left him." Lestrade hissed, opening his eyes and piercing Sherlock with his gaze. Sherlock rolled his eyes. He did not care about how Mycroft had reacted.

"You're a selfish bastard to have done that to him. You know he doesn't even have his gun anymore because Mycroft confiscated it? He was worried John would kill himself one night- he almost did. I've never seen anything like that. Just sitting there in his chair, staring at the one you used to sit in, his eyes dead, his gun right beside him, fully loaded and ready." He choked and turned away from Sherlock as if he could no longer stand to see him.

Sherlock was frozen, numb with shock and fear. John-? Yes, he had known he was sad, upset, that Sherlock had "died" and his limp had returned but this? Why hadn't he deduced this earlier? It seemed the sort of thing he should have seen right away. His best friend, the man he loved, had come very close to ending his own life and he had not even been aware. He suddenly had a horrible idea of what John must have felt all those many months ago.

"He couldn't even throw your stuff away. He kept everything exactly where it was and wouldn't move it. It was like he was expecting you to come back in at any moment- except we all knew you weren't. He was just existing in that flat." Lestrade strode towards Sherlock. "I'm hurt that you lied to Mycroft, lied to Mrs. Hudson, lied to me. Yeah, that hurts. But it's what you did to John that makes you a selfish git. I wouldn't blame John if he never forgave you." He sighed and his expression softened as he really looked at the young man in front of him. Too thin, dark circles under his eyes- eyes that were currently a million miles away, deducing, trying to understand how this had happened. Lestrade shook his head, knowing that emotions and _sentiment_ were not Sherlock's strong suite, it would take him a while but he was sure he would get there in the end. Perhaps a little emotional turmoil for the usually cold consulting detective would be a good thing.

Lestrade pulled Sherlock into a fierce hug. Sherlock stiffened then, slowly, relented and awkwardly patted Lestrade's back a few times.

"I'm chuffed you're back, mate." Lestrade said gruffly, squeezing Sherlock once more and letting him go. "Ready for some cases?"


	10. Chapter 10

"Guess it was too much to hope that we got rid of you for good," Donovan drawled, her face a mask of irritation and disappointment as Sherlock stepped out of Lestrade's office. Anderson stood to the side, surprise overtaking every other emotion on his face as he stared at Sherlock.

John angrily opened his mouth to retort but Sherlock beat him there first.

He smirked smugly. "Yes, and I am overjoyed to see you as well, Sally. As it turns out I was not behind the kidnappings and all those other crimes. That would mean you got it wrong- again. I suppose that's something you're used to, though. Tell me, how are the crime rates these days? Incredibly high I would imagine with only you lot to work them." He began to walk away, then turned back and smiled, a cruel little smile that put Donovan on edge. "Still waiting for Anderson to leave his wife, Sally? For such a strong female you are entirely too pathetic when it comes to men."

He swept out of the office space with his usual flair and John, for once not staying behind to apologize, trotted behind him, a broad grin on his face.

* * *

John puffed out a lungful of air once they were back on the street and said sarcastically. "Well, that went well. Shall we go see Molly now and complete the day? She may still have your riding crop and begin beating you with that." He laughed.

"No need." Sherlock said distractedly, hands jammed in the pockets of his coat, his mind full of what Lestrade had told him. "She already knew I was alive. She helped me defeat Moriarty."

There was a beat of disbelieving silence before John managed to make a sound.

"Hang on…you- wait, _Molly knew_? Molly knew this whole time that you were alive?"

"Yes. It was an elaborate plan I executed to ensure everyone thought I was dead. I could not have done it alone. Molly was extremely helpful in playing her part. She did it beautifully, much better than I had expected her to…John?" Sherlock turned to look where John should have been walking beside him, but John was no longer there. He had stopped walking and was standing a few paces away from Sherlock in the middle of the sidewalk, his hands limp at his sides, his expression clouded with anger and hurt.

"I can't, Sherlock. I can't even look at you right now. I can't even be with you at the moment." John said, turning away, jamming his shaking hands in the pockets of his jacket and beginning to walk back the other way.

"John?" Sherlock turned and hurried after him. "John, what is it?"

"What is it? What is it?! Sherlock, I almost fucking killed myself in grief because I thought you killed yourself. I thought you killed yourself because I was a rubbish friend, that I had maybe done something to make you feel it was your only way out. I didn't know you were saving me, I didn't know there were snipers ready to kill us all. I only knew you, I only saw you jumping from that rooftop and smashing against the sidewalk, walking over to you and seeing your lifeless eyes and your blood." John was crying now, his voice shaking in rage and sadness and Sherlock watched, powerless. "You make it all sound so simple now- I'm back, I didn't die, it's all ok- but it's not, Sherlock! It's not ok! It's not ok that you left me, it's not ok that I had to watch you kill yourself, whether it was real or not! It was real to me- it defined me for the time you were gone. It's not ok that I spent the last year and a half numbed with grief and wanting to kill myself. That-that pain does not go away overnight and you can't cure it just by showing back up and- and loving me!"

John's sobs were painful now and Sherlock wanted to reach out and touch him, fold him into his arms and make this horrible hurting go away. The hurt that he had caused. When he took a step closer, though, John choked and stepped quickly away from him.

"Don't touch me, Sherlock. Just leave me alone." He pivoted on his heel and began walking away, his back straight.

Sherlock watched him go, his heart aching in his chest, unsure of how to fix this. He had thought John was ok. He had seemed ok this morning before they went to see Lestrade. Yes, he had been upset last night but…Sherlock had thought that was over with. It was obvious that he had been horribly wrong, he had been wrong about everything it seemed.

* * *

He went back to the flat, walking slowly, thinking of everything that had happened. When he got back, he talked to Mrs. Hudson, each word she told him of John a painful lance, but he needed to hear it, needed to know. He could not be ignorant of what had happened, of what John had gone through. He then walked through the flat, taking note of everything, observing and deducing, leaving no stone unturned in his search for the truth. He read John's nightmares in the rumpled bed sheets and worn floorboards, he deduced his depression from every surface of the flat, each one reflecting such pain back at him that at times he wanted to close his eyes but he kept going. Sherlock was no coward. If John had suffered through this, then he would as well.

It was many hours later that he heard John's tired footsteps coming up the stairs. Sherlock had been sitting in John's armchair, staring at the one he had used to sit in, and imagining John sitting in that exact spot, a gun close at hand, ready to end his own life. A chill crept up his spine and lodged in his heart and would not go away.

John paused in the doorway, then slowly walked to stand in front of Sherlock and knelt before him, his eyes swollen and red-rimmed, and Sherlock stared back, feeling as if he were looking at the stars. John Watson, the man he loved, was a million miles away and it was not possible for him to reach out and touch him. He did not have that right after everything he had put him through. He ached at the separation.

John smiled, a slight sad smile, and reached out to gently finger the dark bruise on Sherlock's cheek from where Greg had hit him. Sherlock inhaled sharply and trembled beneath his touch, his eyes never leaving John's.

"I still haven't forgiven you," he said, and Sherlock hummed, his eyes flicking down to John's lips and swaying forwards. John moved back, staying out of his range, and Sherlock's heart plummeted.

"No," John said, his fingers still gently caressing Sherlock's face. "I can't. Not now. Not when I feel like this. I still love you, Sherlock, I'm just angry as hell with you right now. And right now, I'm not even sure if I like you. I just…I just need some space, ok?"

He rose from the floor, his fingers trailing over Sherlock's cheek as he left and Sherlock turned his face to keep the contact as long as possible.

"I'm…sorry, John." He winced, hating the way his voice sounded so small and weak. "I…don't like that I hurt you. I knew I would hurt you when I fell, I just didn't know how much…but I knew it was the only way, it was the only way. I…don't regret my actions but…I regret that those actions hurt you. I'm sorry."

John's shoulders sagged and he turned around, and he walked back to Sherlock. He cupped his hands around Sherlock's face and gently kissed him.

"I'm glad you said that. It doesn't take it away, the pain and bitterness and all that, nowhere near. But it helps, Sherlock. Thank you."


	11. Chapter 11

**Thanks so much to everyone who is following and favoriting my story! Please, please, please review. I want to apologize for this horribly short chapter. It was originally part of a much, much longer chapter but I am currently having fits trying to get the ending of that chapter correct- hence the loooong time since I have updated this story. I didn't want to leave you guys without an update though, so until I can make the rest of the chapter behave- here is a snippet that, I hope, helps a little. Enjoy!**

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As soon as Sherlock and John had left Scotland Yard, Lestrade phoned Mycroft. He knew Sherlock did not believe he was very intelligent, but he had known the young man for years, known him when he was still using, and he remembered the way the he had looked. The shadows under his eyes, too lean, shaking hands, minute facial tics. Sherlock was always totally in control of his body. It was unusual when he was not. To Lestrade, it could only mean one thing.

"Holmes." Came the clear, cold voice.

"Mycroft, this is Greg."

"Ah, Detective Inspector, what may I do for you?" Greg could almost see the little smile that would play around Mycroft's lips. "I understand you have seen my brother. I must admit to thinking your greeting was rather dramatic."

Greg inhaled and wondered if he was being reprimanded for punching Mycroft's little brother. The man could be ruthless when it came to Sherlock, but then he remembered his anger at Sherlock and decided to say fuck it- Mycroft could be angry if he wanted. "Yeah, well, that's not the reason I'm calling." He declined to ask how Mycroft had gotten his information. He had long given up trying to understand or figure it out.

"I believe we both know the reason you are calling so soon after seeing my brother." Came the dry reply.

There was silence between them as each thought of the brilliant young man they both knew, each lost in memories too painful to voice. Those memories seemed very much in danger of repeating themselves, Greg realized with a twist in his gut.

"Is he still using?"

Mycroft sighed. "Not that I can tell, but he has only just returned. I have my best surveillance team working round the clock to ensure that he stays clean. Sherlock will be aware of this, however, and, if he is truly bent on finding his fix, he will attempt to circumnavigate the cameras."

"Should I bring him in?" Greg asked, not knowing what else to do. If Mycroft was admitting that he was unsure if he could keep Sherlock clean, Greg did not feel comforted.

Mycroft's laugh was cold, as if he pitied normal people's minds. "Your concern for Sherlock is sweet, Detective Inspector, but we both know how that will end. Besides, we are trying to be discreet."

"Does John know?"

"Do you think John knows?" came the cold reply before the line went dead.


	12. Chapter 12

**First off, apologies to everyone for being so slow to update this fic. I have been working hard on my other fic, Invading Afghanistan, and have sorely neglected this one. Thanks to everyone who has stuck with me and followed and favorited this. All mistakes are my own.**

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The next few days passed in an enjoyable frenzy. Sherlock had been given a few cold cases by Lestrade, who was really desperate to have Sherlock begin solving crime again, and it was these that Sherlock worked over with his old fervor. The first time John saw Sherlock in his thinking pose on the sofa he almost cried and then laughed so hard Sherlock cracked open an eye in annoyance. When he saw John's happiness, however, he smiled slightly at him then promptly told him to be quiet- he was thinking. Sherlock was still much too thin, a state that Mrs. Hudson and John were enjoying remedying by forcing Sherlock to eat regular meals. Sherlock complained about these mealtime intrusions on his thinking time, complaining they were slowing him down. John just grinned when he complained, happy that Sherlock was back _to_ complain. Life at 221B Baker Street seemed to be going back to normal, or as normal as could be expected when Sherlock Holmes was a resident.

John remained distant at times, uncommunicative, his face drawn in a frown, and his mind seemingly a million miles away. He still volunteered to help Sherlock with his cases, reducing his hours at the surgery drastically in favor of going out with Sherlock for research purposes. Other times he would stare at Sherlock happily, content just to be in the same room with him…but he did not kiss Sherlock again, nor did he repeat that he loved him. John was still battling with his emotions, torn between elation that Sherlock was not really dead, and crippling anger over the pain Sherlock had put him through. Sherlock knew not to push him, even though this waiting was tearing him apart. He wanted John to make a decision _now_ and he wanted that decision to be him, Sherlock.

Sherlock had other problems besides John's indecision and the few mediocre cases Lestrade had passed along. He was craving cocaine. It was an _intense_ craving and he could feel his skin crawling with the need to inject it into his veins. It had been 8 days since he had last injected cocaine and it felt like a lifetime. It in his less rational moments he felt as if he would die unless he could access some _right that moment. _He remembered these withdrawals from the last time he had torn himself away from the cocaine and logically, he knew these would eventually fade. His brain, however, was quickly not becoming his friend.

Sherlock was aware that Mycroft knew that he was using cocaine again. He had known from the first moment Mycroft saw him. His brother was not an idiot but neither was Sherlock. He was aware of the fact that he was being watched, surveillance cameras following his every movement and he was convinced the flat was bugged in some way, though he had yet to be bored enough to begin deducing exactly where the cameras were. It was what Mycroft had done years ago, even when Sherlock had been clean, in an effort to keep him that way. Now Mycroft knew he was using again, Sherlock would not be surprised if he was under Red Alert Level One surveillance, or whatever code Mycroft was using.

John did not know of his cocaine habit, Sherlock was utterly grateful for that, and he was doing everything in his power to keep John in the dark. He was sure a cocaine addiction would be the last straw for John. He was handling the fact that Sherlock had "used him" in order to save the others, had put him through hell for the past 18 months…if he knew that Sherlock had been using cocaine again…he would leave. Sherlock was absolutely sure of that. It was imperative that John not find out.

* * *

The scream made John jerk upright in his bed, his heart pounding in his chest, and for a few minutes he was completely lost. He was waiting for the bombs to go off, waiting for the whizz of bullets flying through the air, and he groped in the darkness for his gun, a weapon, anything. As he slowly came to consciousness, however, he realized where he was- Baker Street, the flat- and he became aware that the screams were coming from downstairs.

Swearing, John jumped out of bed and tore out of his room, jumping down multiple steps and thumping onto the landing. Mrs. Hudson's worried face peered up from the very bottom of the stairs, her eyes wide and scared in the darkness.

"_John_! What is going on?"

"Go back to bed, Mrs. Hudson!" he called down and shouldered open Sherlock's bedroom door, dreading what he would find. He worried about an experiment gone badly, burns, cuts, blood. He was already devising a way to stop the bleeding and grab the med kit before calling for an ambulance.

He flicked on the lights and stared in shocked horror for a brief second before rushing to Sherlock's bed. Sherlock was curled into a ball in the middle of his large bed, the covers were twisted around him, and he was screaming as if someone were killing him. His eyes were shut and John could see his pupils moving rapidly beneath the lids. Sweat trickled down his strained face as another terrified scream ripped its way from his throat, making John flinch.

John had experienced enough nightmares of his own to know that Sherlock would not want to be touched. What happened next, therefore, he blamed entirely on himself.

"Sherlock! Sherlock, what is it?" he grasped Sherlock by the shoulder and shook him. Sherlock reacted violently, jerking away from him and came off the bed swinging. One fist connected with John's cheek before he managed to duck and retaliate, grabbing onto Sherlock's forearms. Sherlock jerked against him, attempting to hit him again, and the momentum of Sherlock's attack propelled John backwards and, holding onto Sherlock, both men fell to the floor, John taking the brunt of the fall with a painful grunt.

He laid there, Sherlock a heavy weight on his chest, stunned, gasping for breath and cursing himself for his reaction. John, of all people, should have known better than to shake someone in the throes of a nightmare.

"_John_." Sherlock's voice was rough from sleep and screaming. He blinked down at John, confused, and his eyes wandered round John's face, as if unable to connect the name with the face. John could feel him shaking like a leaf above him, his entire body vibrating and twitching.

"Sherlock. It's me, it's ok. You were just having a nightmare. It's ok now." John said, still gripping his forearms in case Sherlock failed to recognize him. Slowly, like watching water fill a glass, John saw recognition slide into Sherlock's eyes as he stared at John.

"John." He repeated, stronger this time and more confidant and John eased his hands away from Sherlock's arms, breathing a sigh of relief, letting his own hands run up Sherlock's sides and curl around his back, cradling the younger man to him.

"Yeah. Yeah, it's me."

As he began to calm down and orient himself, Sherlock became aware of his position on top of John, both of them only clad in pajamas, and his eyes fell to John's lips. Below him, John could feel Sherlock's penis beginning to harden as he became aware of how close he was to John, how intimate such a position was. Sherlock's breathing changed, his pupils dilated.

"Fuck," John whispered, staring into Sherlock's eyes, mesmerized, unable to stop this or tear himself away. He knew that he probably should. Sherlock was still high on adrenaline from his nightmare- and John knew how easy it was to turn an adrenaline high into arousal. It was possible Sherlock may not even know what he was doing.

Before John could twist away and prevent him, Sherlock swooped down and kissed him.


	13. Chapter 13

John jerked his head back and ended up seeing stars as he slammed his head onto the floor. It made no difference as Sherlock followed the movement, refusing to end the kiss, even as John moaned, slightly in pain. Sherlock took this as incentive to not only deepen the kiss, running his tongue along John's lips before delving inside but also to begin a slow grind against John's pelvis, eliciting another kind of groan from John. John realized he was gripping Sherlock to him and stopped, placing his hands to Sherlock's sides and rolling, attempting to get away and end what he felt was a very inappropriate kiss, considering that Sherlock had, a mere three minutes ago, been screaming.

Sherlock allowed John to roll him onto his back but hooked his leg around John's hip and tightened his arms around the smaller man, allowing the momentum and force to bring John on top of him and, once he was there, Sherlock raised his legs and gripped them around John's hips, securing him. He thrust upwards and John groaned again before forcing himself to break the kiss, staring down at Sherlock beneath him in surprise, confusion, and a great deal of lust.

"Sherlock, we can't! You-"

"_Please_, John!" Sherlock moaned, thrusting up again, his breath catching in his throat. "I need you."

John closed his eyes and rested his forehead against Sherlock's, breathing deeply and attempting to calm his racing heart. The problem was that he wanted this, he wanted it way too much. He should be pulling away, helping Sherlock sort through his nightmare, not allowing them to hump about on the floor.

"We shouldn't." John said, his voice carrying more force than he was aware he had in this situation. "Fuck, I can't believe I'm saying this. We have to stop, Sherlock."

He tried to pull away and this time Sherlock let him, his legs dropping to the sides. Sherlock brought his hands up to cover his face and John winced when he saw they were shaking. Sherlock's chest still heaved with his labored breathing and his arousal jutted from between his legs, very prominently. John had to swallow very hard and force himself to look away before he fell back on top of Sherlock and did everything that he had desired to do with the man.

He stood up and extended a hand to pull Sherlock up but, prideful as always, Sherlock stumbled to his feet on his own. He stood stiffly, his face schooled into coldness and indifference, refusing to meet John's eyes and he felt a twinge of guilt. He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair.

"Look, I want to fuck you so badly I can barely see straight right now, alright?" John said, staring straight at Sherlock so the younger man could meet his eyes and deduce the truth in them. "I want you. That's not why I stopped. I just…you were having a nightmare, obviously a horrible one, and I don't- didn't- want to take advantage of that- of you."

Sherlock continued to look unconvinced so John, after dithering on the spot for a few seconds, grabbed Sherlock's hand and placed it squarely on his groin, allowing the genius detective to feel his erection. John blushed and withdrew his hand. Sherlock's remained and now a faint blush was stealing up his neck and into his cheeks. He did not move his hand, did not caress, merely kept it where John had placed it and stared.

"That's…that's what you do to me, ok, Sherlock? I want you." John was having difficulty thinking past the position of Sherlock's hand and his erection pulsed insistently. Sherlock's hand twitched and he removed it, somewhat reluctantly. The smile he gave John was so sweet and yet wicked at the same time he felt his heart break even as his cock grew harder. Fuck. He needed a distraction.

"So what was your dream about?"

Sherlock's smile was instantly wiped off his face and he turned away from John, flicking the light off, plunging the room into darkness.

"It is not important. It was merely a manifestation of some deep-seated fears and irrational thoughts that have plagued me for many months. Memories clashing together to form a strange jumble from which my body reacted with fear and violence apparently."

John jumped when he felt Sherlock's fingers gently touch the bruise that was rapidly forming on his cheek. He had not heard him move in the darkness and he was sure that was just as Sherlock wanted it. He held his breath, feeling the other man's body heat radiating around him. His heart, which had been returning to a normal rhythm, now kicked back up.

"I have nightmares too, Sherlock." He confessed in a low voice, the conversation feeling much more intimate in the darkness. "You remember my having them and how I reacted. I'm sure I've disturbed you on many nights with my screaming and crying. Memories of the war, death, destruction…I know how it feels. It's ok, you know. I understand."

He heard Sherlock take a ragged breath and then felt the smooth glide of Sherlock's cheek against his, the brush of lips to his ear. John shivered.

"I'm alone in my dreams, all alone." Sherlock breathed, lips brushed John's ear with every word. "Months and months of loneliness and knowing I will endure months and months more of loneliness, day in and day out, night after night after night. Forced to do terrible things, hating myself a little more each day, wanting to reclaim a bit of my sanity, for just a moment have someone understand me and not feel so alone. I turn to you…but you're not there. You're never there. Then I realize that you never _were_ there, you never existed, I have always been alone. You were only in my mind. I wake up screaming."

John's arms came up to wrap Sherlock in a hug and Sherlock sighed, snuffling his nose into John's hair and breathing deeply, humming in his chest when he smelled John's unique scent. _Home_.

John remembered his nightmares before Sherlock went away…and those during Sherlock's absence. When Sherlock had been "alive," John would sometimes awaken from a bad dream, so vivid and real it made him literally sick to his stomach, and would hear the soothing strains of the violin. He had realized, a few times after this had happened, that Sherlock was aware of the screams coming from John's room and the reasons for them, and was attempting to help by soothing his nerves and lulling John back to sleep. Now he wanted to do something similar for Sherlock.

"Why don't I…sleep here tonight? Just _sleep_, Sherlock." John added sternly when the younger man made a very suggestive noise in his ear. "I want to be near you in case you have any more nightmares and my presence might be….soothing to you. Having another person near might make you feel less alone."

Sherlock pouted as John slid into bed. It was obvious John was making sure to keep to the far side as if he were afraid if he got too close Sherlock would molest him.

"Goodnight, Sherlock."

Sherlock refused to answer, continuing what was sure to become a massive pout until an intriguing thought latched onto his brain.

"If I still feel the same way in the morning, John…"

"Christ, Sherlock, then I will fuck you senseless, alright? For now, let's just sleep, ok?" John said, rather irritated due to sexual frustration and anger at himself. He could not believe he was turning Sherlock down when the man obviously wanted sex from him. But it felt wrong. Their first time should not be after Sherlock had a terrible nightmare and was so…vulnerable. Trying not to think about what the morning might involve, John managed to force himself to sleep.


	14. Chapter 14

**First off, thanks again to everyone who reviews, favorites, and follows my story. I am up to over 50 people following this story- wow! Thanks so much! :D**

**Well, dears, this is the penultimate chapter to Defects Found on the Losing Side. To be honest, I am a bit surprised it will end up being 15 chapters long- I expected it to be much shorter when I started writing it but… I hope you have enjoyed reading it and I would like many, many reviews. :)**

**Any mistakes are, of course,my own.  
**

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Sherlock did not sleep the rest of the night. There were several reasons for this but the main, overriding one was a desire to watch John sleep and be the first to know when the sun rose. The clamoring beat of his withdrawals was calmed, soothed, retreating as his body fought its way back to his own will and Sherlock was grateful. For now. He was sure the next time opportunity arose, too much boredom, no new cases, tedium, monotony- he would want to reach for the cocaine again. Once the fresh horror of the withdrawals faded, Sherlock was sure the opportunity would look inviting to him. He decided to think about that later.

He was back at Baker Street and John was in his bed. It was almost perfect- would be if John were awake. Sherlock drummed his fingers on the bed while he waited. The temptation to wake John now was very strong, but he had the idea that if he woke John before sunrise, John would be a bit grumpy and 75% more likely to reject his advances. He could wait.

When the very first rays of the rising sun began to creep underneath the bedroom curtains, Sherlock closed the small distance between himself and John and stroked his cheek. John stirred under his touch and Sherlock waited for him to wake up….and waited. Huffing out an impatient sigh, Sherlock leaned over, carefully, and kissed his neck, fascinatingly covered in coarse stubble, and ran his tongue up to his ear, the lobe of which he took in his mouth and sucked. John made a low noise in his chest and arched his back a bit…and continued sleeping. Rolling his eyes, Sherlock bit down- hard.

John yelped as he came fully awake and turned to glare accusingly at Sherlock, who looked maddeningly pleased with himself.

"Oh, good, you're awake." Sherlock said, quickly leaning forward, grabbing John's face, and kissing him. John tried to twist away- his ear was throbbing slightly and he had been having a rather good dream- but Sherlock tightened his hold on John's face and twisted himself about so he lay on top of John, flush against him from chest to foot…and John was lost.

He kissed Sherlock back, threading his fingers through the curly hair and crushing his mouth to Sherlock's, refusing to let the detective go. Sherlock did not seem to mind as he began his slow grind from the night before against John's hip, giving his lips up to John to do with as he pleased. John moaned as he moved his lips over Sherlock's. He had been dreaming of kissing Sherlock like this for ages, it seemed. He fisted Sherlock's pajama top and pulled it up, a brief scuffle ensued between the two, but in the end John won and the top landed far away from the bed.

He had only the briefest of glances at the beautiful, white skin above him before Sherlock reclaimed his lips, biting rather harder than necessary but causing John to arch up against him, delicious shivers racing down his spine.

"Are-are you still- Oh, _fuck,_ Sherlock, not that hard!- feeling the same way then?"

"Do shut up, John." Came the quick reply, which to John sounded so much hotter when Sherlock was breathless and pressing himself against his body.

John growled and, clasping Sherlock about the middle, rolled them, wanting to be on top. The position had been unimaginably hot the previous night and John very much wanted to try it again. The subsequent sensations almost made his eyes roll back in his head.

"Oh, fuck," John groaned, allowing Sherlock to pull him back down for another heated kiss. Sherlock's hands fumbled their way underneath John's shirt and he raked his fingernails lightly down John's back, eliciting a shudder from the man on top of him. John collapsed against Sherlock, taking his weight on his elbows to either side of Sherlock's head, and allowed himself to devour his mouth. He bit at Sherlock's lips, sucking away the hurt before tangling his tongue with Sherlock's and moaning into his mouth.

Sherlock responded with enthusiasm, continuing thrusting upwards and John countered by grinding down, enjoying the friction their bodies produced. Sherlock raked his fingernails down John's back again and then grasped John's bottom, urging him closer and closer. It was enough to drive John mad.

"John, John, _please_," Sherlock whispered unevenly, trembling, and John rose up with the intention of fulfilling the enjoyable task of pulling off Sherlock's bottoms.

Sherlock felt John freeze above him and he opened his eyes to see John staring in absolute dismay at his arms. His arms? Swearing, Sherlock abruptly sat up, sending John sprawling to the floor, and hastily grabbed and donned his shirt, buttoning it with trembling fingers. He knew what John had seen- tracks marks, numerous track marks, some fresher than others, some so faded they were almost indistinguishable from his skin, but there they still remained. John would know what he had been doing.

"Sherlock," John's voice was fearful and Sherlock winced hearing it but he did not turn around nor did he reply.

"Sherlock!" Angry now, shock giving way to fury.

"You are not a parrot, John, stop repeating my name!"

Silence from behind him.

"When did you start again?" Voice sounded lost, tired, scared, and resigned. Where was the anger? Sherlock found that he had felt more comfortable with John's anger. He did not like hearing his John sound so…defeated by his actions.

Sherlock shrugged, his back stiff. "While I was away. Does it matter, John?"

"You will never do cocaine again, do you hear me, Sherlock?"

Sherlock's first inclination was to rebel, to tell John to mind his own business and that he would do as much cocaine as he wanted- then back the threat up with actions. If it had been Mycroft telling him- ordering him- Sherlock would have done just that. Sherlock _had done_ just that in the past. This was John though.

"Or what?" he asked, knowing he was pushing John but unable to stop the words from leaving his mouth. He didn't want to push John away, make him so angry he left for good, but it was like watching a train wreck and being unable to do anything about it.

There was silence behind him. "Or I will leave, Sherlock. So help me god, I will leave. I won't stay round and watch you slowly destroy yourself with something…something so stupidly pointless. You do realize what cocaine does to your body, don't you? You're smart, you should know."

"You must act how you feel best, John." Sherlock replied, his voice cold and noncommittal, though inwardly he was panicking. What was he saying? Why was he saying this? John was threatening to leave him and all Sherlock was capable of doing was encouraging him.

John swore and stalked around the bed, so angry he could not be in the same room with Sherlock anymore. Suddenly it was all too much, the knowledge that he had been alive and lied to him, had done cocaine while he was gone. It was just too much. John knew he needed to get away from it.

As he passed, Sherlock grabbed John and spun him around but John jerked out of his grasp and stalked out of his room, slamming the door behind him.

* * *

The call to Mycroft had not helped. The bastard had known Sherlock was using again and all he had done was train his cameras on Sherlock and hope for the bloody best. Some of the words John had shouted in anger would eventually make him cringe in embarrassment but at the moment he did not care. Mycroft intimated that Lestrade had known as well and John felt very betrayed. Why had no one told him? How had he not seen it? He was a doctor for fucks sake! He should have seen the signs of withdrawal from Sherlock, should have seen them for what they were.

John left the flat and began walking aimlessly. There had been no sounds from Sherlock's room as he left and he had not looked back so he had not seen the living room curtains twitch and a curly head poke out to watch him leave. He had wondered if Sherlock had already gone out or if he were laying in his bed in his thinking pose. John shook out the tension in his shoulders and turned his face up to the weak winter sunshine.

He found his feet carrying him to St. Bart's and, when he looked up, up, up at the roof, he realized he had been thinking of this all day. He had never come back here, not once, after Sherlock "died." John was glad he had not. If he had seen Molly, had her sympathize with him and then find out that she had known all along- it would have been intolerable. It seemed that nothing was as it seemed. He shook his head, his mouth a thin line and slowly walked into the building.

* * *

"I haven't used since I came back."

John jumped in the doorway to the flat and flicked on the light to find Sherlock curled in his armchair, in his dressing gown, his gaze steady on John.

"That's…great, Sherlock. Good to know." John was surprised at how tired his voice sounded and entered the kitchen. He had started the preparations to make tea when Sherlock spoke again.

"I didn't use when you left today, either."

John sighed in relief and dropped his head, his shoulders sagging in relief. He had thought that, when he was standing on the roof of St. Bart's, looking down, amazed at how small everything looked, that Sherlock would probably use while he was gone. It was this thought that had plagued him. Mycroft could not stop him, not if Sherlock really wanted to do something. It was a game between them, Sherlock attempting to outsmart Mycroft. It was no longer an amusing game to John.

"I won't use again, John."

"It's not like just flipping off a switch, Sherlock. You can't just _decide_ one day to not be addicted. That's not how it works."

"I still want cocaine, John." Came the irritated reply. "Only I want you more."

John abandoned his tea and walked into the living room and sank, with a weary sigh, onto his chair.

"Just tell me why, Sherlock. Just…try and tell me why you started using again. I may not understand it. I probably won't, to be honest, just like I don't really understand a lot of reasons _why_ you do the things you do." John scrubbed his hands over his face. "I'll try though."

Sherlock frowned. "I hated killing people, doing horrible things to them. I started using to help me overcome this. It worked, they died, I was fine. There's your answer." He said this in a great rush but John caught every word. He turned them over and over in his mind, read between the lines of what Sherlock had said, and what he had not said, and reached his own answers. He nodded.

"Tea?" he asked, rising and walking back to the kitchen.

There was silence from the living room so John made two cups anyway and took them out. When he handed Sherlock his, their fingers brushed and Sherlock looked up into John's gaze, searching, trying to deduce his next move.

"Are you staying?" he finally asked.

"Are you doing cocaine again?"

"No."

"Then yes."


	15. Chapter 15

**I would be lying if I said I did not feel a little sad at the ending of this fic. This is my first completed fanfiction and everyone has made the experience so wonderful- thanks for all the support! Everyone who read, reviewed, favorited, followed- I love you all and am so grateful! Please let me know what you think of the story :) (Notice the bold and underlined- that means I really, really, really would like everyone to review :D)**

**I would also like to mention that I am taking prompts for new stories. If you have an idea, please let me know. Thanks and much love!**

* * *

The Christmas tree was the only source of light in the flat. Sherlock stood in the doorway to the living room and stared at John, asleep sitting up on the sofa. His face was shadowed but parts of it were thrown into gentle relief by the multicolored lights that twinkled from the tree between the two windows. Jon had not said as much, but Sherlock had been able to deduce that the Christmas John had spent without Sherlock had been the worst in his life. John had not decorated a tree, had gotten drunk Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, and then contemplated suicide, though not in such a dramatic fashion as Lestrade had informed him of. This had been a different time. Mrs. Hudson had told him about it, in strict confidence, and Sherlock was not about to bring it up. Not now. It was obvious that John was attempting to make up for that this year and the flat was decorated to the nines, complete with fairy lights strung about the walls and a very large tree decked out in finery.

Sherlock released a deep breath, enraptured by the sight of John sleeping before him. It seemed impossible that he was here, safe in the flat and with John, able to stare at the man he loved until his heart's content. It was beautiful. _It_ felt like something Sherlock did not deserve. It broke his heart. John had still not told him that he loved him again, not since that first day. Sherlock was able to determine that John was still "dealing with" his problems. They kissed now and then, brief pecks, but nothing compared to that blistering morning nearly a week ago, the memory of which was still enough to make Sherlock's toes curl in ecstasy. John, since learning of Sherlock's recent cocaine addiction, was watching Sherlock like a hawk now, taking note of everything he did, where he went, how long he was gone- and it was trying Sherlock's patience. But he did not say a word and allowed John to keep tabs on him as much as he wanted. Sherlock knew eventually John would trust him when he said he would not resort back to drugs, but that may take quite a while. John, and Sherlock as well, were prepared to wait.

Mycroft's meddling was intolerable. When John did it…it was still annoying but Sherlock knew he did it because he loved him. So Sherlock submitted himself to John's care, knowing everything would turn out all right in the end. John would trust him again. He just hoped John would love him as well.

Sherlock crept into the living room on silent feet and stood before John, staring down at him, committing his every feature in this moment to his memory, enjoying the sound of John's breathing and watching the pulse beat calmly at his neck. The touches of grey at his temples, the slight wrinkles at the corners of his eyes from smiling and laughing so much, the exact shape of his ears, the shape of his lips, the knowledge of what those lips felt like against his. Sherlock made sure the image was crystal clear in his Mind Palace so he would always be able to remember John like this.

Sherlock knelt in front of John, between his legs, and raised his slightly shaking hands to ghost over John's sweater clad chest and arms. He was afraid that if he touched John, allowed one small impression, he would vanish and Sherlock would wake up in some foreign country, cold and alone. He logically knew this was not true and it was a horrible and disgustingly sentimental thought, but he could not shake this irrational fear. He ghosted his hands over John's face and traced the shape of his lips with the tip of one finger. John's tongue snaked out to lick his lips but he did not move or wake up, nor did he disappear. Sherlock released a shuddering breath.

Sherlock gazed at the face he loved more than any other, the face of the man who claimed to love him, though he had not heard the words since that first morning. He took a deep breath, and leaned forward to gently brush his lips against John's.

At the first gentle touch of lips to his, John awoke and found himself staring into Sherlock's eyes from mere inches away. Sherlock was frozen, his lips pressed to John's, eyes wide, holding his breath, ready for John to push him away and calmly explain that they could not do this, not now, he was still "dealing with things," etc. Instead, John closed his eyes and tilted his head to the side, moving his lips against Sherlock's and deepening the kiss. Sherlock made a small noise against his mouth and John felt those long fingers gently cupping his cheek as if he were the most rare and delicate thing in the world.

John slowly straightened up on the couch, tipping Sherlock back as he went, and licked gently at Sherlock's closed lips. They opened with a shaky sigh that made John shiver in anticipation and he delved in, circling Sherlock's tongue and sucking on it. John ran his hands through Sherlock's curly hair and gently tipped his head back, allowing John easier access to the kiss and placing Sherlock at a height disadvantage, which John loved as it was so rare.

"_I love you_," John whispered against Sherlock's lips and he felt the other man shake beneath him at the words.

Suddenly, John was pushed back against the couch and Sherlock flowed up after him, coming to rest straddling John's lap, instantly ducking down to kiss him. The tempo of the kiss had changed, becoming faster, more desperate. Sherlock's hands were tugging at John's jumper, peeling it off his body, and Sherlock unhappily quit kissing John in order to whisk the garment over John's head and fling it behind him. He ran his hands down the warm flesh of John's chest, fingers gently caressing and John's breath caught in his throat at the naked adoration in Sherlock's face. He felt so lucky to be able to put that look on Sherlock's face.

"Say it again," Sherlock mumbled against John's neck. John felt the brief wetness of Sherlock's tongue before the taller man bit down, sucking the sensitive skin into his mouth and swirling his tongue over it. John closed his eyes to savor the feeling, his breathing becoming more labored.

"I love you," he whispered obediently and Sherlock gasped and pressed himself closer to John as if he could fuse their bodies together at the chest. John could feel him shaking and smiled as he pushed Sherlock back gently, in order to look into his eyes. They were tightly closed and John lightly touched each trembling eyelid before curling his hands around Sherlock's face. "I love you." He repeated, bringing the taller man's face down so he could softly kiss him.

"Why?" Sherlock asked against John's mouth, making him pause and blink in surprise. "Why do you love me? I'm a selfish sociopath who hurt you. I took drugs, killed people and felt wonderful about it. I frequently bring human remains home and perform ghastly experiments on them that annoy you. I won't stop doing that, no matter how many times you ask. You tell me I'm rude and I don't interact well with people. I will have issues and make you deal with them, I will hurt you time and time again and sometimes I won't be sorry. Why do you love me, John? Why?"

John pressed his lips to Sherlock's again and finally coaxed a response from the stiff consulting detective who could not figure out why someone loved him.

"We're both damaged, you know." John said, bringing Sherlock's hand up and placing it over the scar on his left shoulder. He brought his own hand up and placed it over Sherlock's heart. "Sometimes the damage is on the outside, sometimes it's on the inside, but that doesn't mean we aren't worth loving." John kissed his way across Sherlock's cheek and ghosted his lips over Sherlock's ear, eliciting a shudder. "I love you."

Sherlock remained passive in John's arms as John unbuttoned his shirt and slowly peeled it off his body, throwing it behind them. John flattened his hands against Sherlock's bare chest and drew them downwards, stopping just shy of Sherlock's belt. Sherlock's eyes popped open to observe John's hands touching him, his pupils expanding rapidly.

"You are beautiful, inside and out. I love watching you work on experiments in the kitchen, no matter how ghastly they turn out to be. You have a brilliant mind and it is like magic to watch you work out a puzzle or a difficult case. I will always yell at you for keeping body parts in the fridge and microwaving feet- but you love that about me. It means that I still care about what you're doing. I'm never bored around you, Sherlock." John leaned forward and placed a kiss over Sherlock's rapidly beating heart. "I love you."

John's fingers danced their way up Sherlock's chest and curled around his shoulders, kneading the muscle and skin there, until they trailed down Sherlock's arms. He brought Sherlock's arms up to his face and then John tenderly kissed each track mark that decorated the bends of Sherlock's arms. Sherlock closed his eyes, his face burning in shame.

"You're perfect," John whispered, bringing his lips up to meet Sherlock's in a searing kiss. "Every inch of you." When he pulled away for air, he cupped Sherlock's cheeks in his hands until Sherlock opened his eyes and when he did, John smiled. "I love you."

It was in that moment that Sherlock irrevocably and completely lost his heart to John Hamish Watson. He had said the words a year ago, repeated them weeks ago, and thought he meant them when he said them each time, but now, staring at John as he kissed and licked his way down his body, worshiping Sherlock as if he were the rarest thing in the world, Sherlock knew he loved John. It was the difference between seeing and observing.

"I love you, John."


End file.
